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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348862">Give and Take (and Take)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell'>Hopetohell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Night Hunter (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Breeding, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:29:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348862</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He doesn’t greet you, for one, just throws his things down on the side table and stands with his hands gripping till his knuckles are white and the curve of his spine is held taut enough to snap.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Walter takes on sex pollen, with predictable results.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/You, Walter/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s all big dark eyes, irises gone wafer thin around wide black pupils and he’s breathing hard, he’s— <em>he’s </em>hard and at first you make a crack about it. <em>Good day at the precinct, Walter? </em>But something is off. He doesn’t greet you, for one, just throws his things down on the side table and stands with his hands gripping till his knuckles are white and the curve of his spine is held taut enough to snap.  He’s straining his jeans and it looks like it hurts him, like <em>everything </em>hurts him. And you’re moving toward him because he needs something and you’re gonna give it to him if you can. </p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t. </em>
</p>
<p>And that stings, that he doesn’t want you near. But</p>
<p>
  <em>I tried, I tried to wash it off but I don’t know if it— it could hurt you. I could. I could hurt you. </em>
</p>
<p><em>You couldn’t.</em> And you’re reaching forward again.</p>
<p>At the first brush of contact he keens, says <em>I can’t, I can’t, </em>and you’re a damn fool, the way you keep on, the way you grip at his shoulder. Your fingertips barely graze the bare skin of his neck and it’s like a dam breaking. He spins and grabs your wrist and he is fast; how is he so big and so goddamn <em>fast? </em></p>
<p>He has you, somehow, on the floor of the foyer, flipping you onto your belly and tearing at your clothes; your shirt and pants are torn open from the top of your spine down to where you ache wetly for him. To where he needs so desperately to bury himself; he reaches for you and finds your slick staining his fingertips already, guilty of the most primal response to his rough handling. He growls at that, he hisses, he is a whole cruel menagerie.</p>
<p>And he sinks into you roughly, lacking finesse, lacking the care that normally drives him to be oh so gentle, to bring you off before he even slips inside like a sigh, careful with the feel of you stretching to accommodate his size. But this. This is a <em>fuck,</em> in the filthiest, most primal, most animalistic sense. He bites at your shoulders, raising puffy pink welts, and with his teeth still sunk deep in your shoulder he’s hauling you back onto his cock, driving in at a fierce sharp angle that has you actually, literally, out-loud screaming. </p>
<p>And whatever it is that has him in its grip, it drives him to press in in<em> in, </em>and even when he spills hot and sticky inside you he doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t release your shoulder from his teeth. He digs his fingers harder into your hips and he will leave black fingerprint bruises, as he keeps you pinned on his cock to make sure his seed stays inside, to make sure it <em>takes. </em>He pulses, and maybe it’s over. </p>
<p>It isn’t over. </p>
<p>He fills again, burning hot and inexorable in the way he drives into you. You come screaming at some point and then again as he’s driving the breath from your lungs with the weight of him on your back, with the drag of his cock along your walls, and it is<em> so much.</em> And Christ, it’s terrifying and overwhelming and good to see him free of the tight leash he normally keeps himself on. To feel the weight of him on you, careless and lust-driven and free of worry. Free of anything except how goddamn good you feel around him, no longer afraid of hurting you, like he ever really could. And of all things that’s what has you tearing up, has your eyes red-rimmed and sticky. </p>
<p>When he comes again he lets go of your hips to pull your face back and up to him, to swallow your cries, and at last he’s fading out, slipping down into unconsciousness that’ll have him here on the foyer floor til he wakes, too heavy for you to drag up to bed. But before he goes under he sees those tears, and he doesn’t understand, and it <em>hurts </em>him. </p>
<p>And then, at last, he sleeps.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The morning after.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You wake, sore and sated, and for a moment everything is alright. You ache, tender and bruised-feeling between your legs, skin still bearing the rasp and scrape of Walter’s body hair. It’s <em>good. </em>It’s every morning-after you’ve ever had rolled into one, only better. Because you are so <em>satisfied, </em>and if the <em>why </em>of it is still hazy, still locked behind the last remnants of sleep, the <em>how </em>of it is evident in those bruises, those scrapes, the scratchy feel of dried semen between your legs. </p>
<p>Hm. He didn’t wash you after? That’s— odd. And where is Walter, anyway? His side of the bed is cold, his smell dissipated from the pillow. </p>
<p>And there it is. The night before, unfurling in your mind, its wings still wet. The filthy roll of his hips, the pain of him pushing inside too soon, his teeth at your shoulder. The inevitable approach of orgasm, the <em>mine </em>and <em>fill you up </em>and <em>keep it in </em>before words were lost to him. </p>
<p>Walter, alone on the floor, under a blanket you’d found before stumbling up to bed. </p>
<p>But he isn’t there. The blanket is back on the couch, folded neatly. But no Walter. Not at home, not at work (<em>called in sick, how’s he feeling?</em>), not at that cafe he likes, the one where the booths are all sticky. You find him at his old apartment, door unlocked like he’s waiting for either you or a burglar to come and bash his head in.  </p>
<p>He doesn’t look up, but he says <em>I’m sorry,</em> tight and small, a too-big hurt squeezing out. <em>I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. </em></p>
<p>And it’s just.<em> God damn it, Walter. You giant lummox, did you ever think to ask how <strong>I </strong>felt about it?</em> He’s surprised, then. He expected anger, and you brought that, certainly, but not for the reasons he’d thought. <em>You were hurting. You needed it. And fuck, it was good. You were— </em></p>
<p><em>I hurt you. </em>He’s stuck on that, isn’t he, and he’s going to stay stuck on it unless something shakes him loose. So you climb up into his lap, legs aching as you straddle his thighs, as you wrap your arms around his torso and burrow your face into his neck. He’s tense, still waiting for the hammer to fall, even now. Still waiting for that poisoned hurt whisper in his ear, <em>get out. Never want to see you again. </em></p>
<p><em>Walter. God damn it. I’d do it again. I’d— I’d like to do it again. To have you free to just take, to uh. Fuck. To fill me up, make me yours. All of me. </em>And he looks at you then for a long, long time, lifting you off his shoulder so he can watch your eyes. So he can catch the lie, but the lie never comes. It never comes and you just keep looking right back at him, waiting. Waiting for that moment when, if it doesn’t quite click, it at least is beginning to enter his awareness. And he stares and stares, until you brush a hand through his curls and wriggle down. <em>Come on. I’ll make some coffee, and then let’s talk about this. </em></p>
<p>And miraculously, you do. And he <em>listens. </em></p>
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